


To Meet and to Part

by CorsetJinx



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Mercy Killing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:52:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8300635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsetJinx/pseuds/CorsetJinx
Summary: Many Hunters have come through the Dream. Some of their echoes remain.





	1. Sanctuary

The Hunter is not at all what Arianna expects when she opens her door cautiously to peer outside. Hazel eyes peer at her from over a mask of cloth, tri-cone hat settled somewhat askew on their head. Her head, Arianna realizes, because the Hunter in front of her is a woman - sturdily built yes, but there is no mistaking the shape of the chest and hips beneath close-fitting layers of cotton and leather.

The woman's eyes are not unkind, simply as wary as she herself is and Arianna cannot bring herself to fault the Hunter for it.

"You.. You said there was a place of safety?" She wets her lips carefully, unable to keep her gaze from darting up and down the currently deserted street. It's quiet for the moment and that's a rare thing in Yharnam. She lifts her gaze back to the Hunter's face and catches the nod sent her way.

She does not expect the question that comes with it, however.

"Do you have a weapon?" The Hunter asks. Her voice is pleasantly soft. A little deep. "I've cleared the way as best I could but more beasts could come before we make it there. If you don't, I can give you something of mine."

The offer is so kind, so genuine, that Arianna feels a smile creep its way onto her face. It feels odd - she hasn't had much reason to smile in a long time.

"I don't believe I would know how to use it, though I appreciate the gesture." She tells her. She has her little knife - it's not much but it brings her a measure of comfort just to have it.

Clearing her throat, Arianna carefully steps out from the meager protection her doorway offered. The night air is cooler than anticipated but there's no time to grab anything other than what she already had, weight of the bag resting against her back just enough that she has to keep her other hand on it.

"Shall we then, good Hunter?" She tries to lift her voice and lighten the dreary mood. To her surprise the Hunter's eyes curve at the edges as though the woman might be smiling underneath her mask.

The taller woman bows as much as she can with one hand on the haft of a cleaver boasting a ragged saw's blade, free hand sweeping the air in a familiar gesture. The formality comes off as unnecessary and silly in their current location, prompting a soft giggle to rise from Arianna's throat.

Gods when was the last time she'd truly laughed?

There is no time to think on it. The Hunter leads the way, once free hand now curled around the grip of a pistol, her head occasionally turning one way and then the other as though she were listening. Arianna strained her ears to listen as well, giving up on any attempt to pierce the gloom of the streets with her eyes alone.

She was certain that there were things she didn't want to see, be it at night or in the harsh light of day.

They pick their way slowly across the streets, bypassing ladders of ridiculous height and, briefly, making their way underground. The air turns foul here, Arianna cannot find relief by breathing through her mouth or her nose alone - even after her guide stops long enough to pass her a length of cloth to cover both.

It's warm from her companion's bodily heat and smells of something sweet. The scent makes her want to inhale deeply though she refrains until they are at least out in cleaner air.

She's smelled this before, she thinks distantly. Her fingers trace the worn cloth thoughtfully as she finally lowers it from her nose, eyes roaming over vaguely familiar landmarks. There are few places in Yharnam that have trees - but the air is light and fresher than the oppressive atmosphere within the city proper.

A beast howls somewhere and Arianna shudders, fingers clenching the cloth around her neck just as the ones around the handle of her knife shine white at the knuckles.

The Hunter sends her a sympathetic glance.

"You'll be safe soon. The Chapel Dweller promised."

Chapel? Oedon Chapel?

She sees it then, the stone and the equally dismal sense of despair that had pervaded the streets. It is broken by the soft light of scented lanterns, the faint coils of mist that creep out from openings in the metal and glass doing a little to soothe her senses.

"There is enough to last the night?" She asks, stepping over the threshold only after the Hunter does, sweeping the area with her eyes just to assure herself.

"Yes. Enough and more." The Hunter's voice softens further and Arianna watches as she moves quietly across the weathered floor to greet a strange creature rising up from the floor - it's body a dark mess of red that almost resembles fur.

The face it bares is human enough, however, and what she can hear of the conversation seems genial enough. The being reaches up to clasp the Hunter's gloved hand with both of its own, dwarfing the woman's almost in size.

Arianna makes herself look away from the hope on the Dweller's face, feeling as though she were intruding on something private. Instead she looks around, spotting few others present. A man simply dressed shoots her a suspicious look from under a heavy brow and scowling mouth - one she returns with a faint inclination of her head.

He looks away.

The Hunter's return spares her the need to think on that and she finds that it's easier to meet those hazel eyes than wonder if she needs to be any further on her guard. Safety from the beasts is one, admittedly precious, thing. The thought of being wary of a fellow human threatens to exhaust her.

"I'm sorry that it isn't more." The Hunter inclines her head in time with the apology, surprising her yet again. "The Dweller says there's a brazier for you if you need it, but there isn't much in the way of blankets."

For the second time Arianna feels herself smile. "You didn't have to."

"It's no trouble." Her companion shrugs. "The night's freezing as it is. If I find anything useful I'll try and bring it back here. Enough for everyone, at least."

The Hunter's eyes flick over the wide expanse of the Chapel as though hoping to see more - more people, perhaps.

Not for the first time Arianna thinks it must be grueling work, being a Hunter.

"You saved me." She assures her, lifting the corners of her lips with surprisingly little effort. Her tone draws the Hunter's gaze back to her, curiosity replacing the weariness she'd glimpsed a moment ago. "It may mean little, but I offer you my sincerest thanks."

Her eyes curve again, just over her mask. She thinks it might be a pleasant smile even if she cannot see it.

"If it isn't too bold of me, might I ask you your name?" She inquires instead.

"Thalia." She dips her head once, the gesture purely courteous. "Thalia Brimsby."

"My pleasure then, Thalia." Arianna smiles. There's the urge to curtsy and she does, pleased when it brings a quiet chuckle from her companion.

They part after that. Arianna settles herself into a chair gratefully, warming herself by the promised brazier. It only reaches so far - but it is better than sitting in her home, terrified and facing the notion of running out of incense to keep the beasts at bay.

The Chapel Dweller is kind and verbose, not seeming to care at all about her station or what the gown she wears implies. She thinks she might feel a measure of fondness for them over that.

The man she'd silently greeted earlier never leaves his spot, continuing to glare suspiciously at the smallest movement.

It's tiresome, but easy to ignore him.

The moon hangs huge and low in the sky, white and unsettling. Arianna shivers and rubs her arms for comfort.


	2. Cold Mercy

He leaves Djura's body to cool at the top of his tower, wipes the man's potent blood from his lips after descending the ladder and pays no mind to the mangled remains of the sawspear Hunter he'd savaged beforehand. Blood darkens the stone almost everywhere he treads - some of it his own work, other spots long wet and aged before he ever set foot in Old Yharnam.

Further out in the city, a beast howls.

He no longer pricks his ears to track it, instead making his way through the filthy streets to the next likely source of amusement.

The Bloody Crow of Cainhurst had reacted with puzzlement when he'd greeted him with familiarity - so much so that an onlooker might have thought they were brothers. He left the man to his own devices after that. There was little to say after all, as in one way or another they served the same Queen.

Eileen's Blades of Mercy hung from his sides, the only thing he'd taken from her corpse after old Henryk had given in to his madness.

It hadn't been anything personal, really. So little actually changed if he offered his assistance. At the most, it saved him the trouble of doing it himself once she learned of his dispassion towards the Hunt in Yharnam and his allegiance to Cainhurst.

Part of him wondered if Gascoigne's former partner was still wandering the cemetery, raving and howling with knives between his fingers. He supposed it didn't matter in the end. The night would reach its conclusion one way or another, just as it had before.

His feet stopped just shy of a familiar window - the darkened interior leading him to wonder if he'd been too late like the very first time. Reaching out, mindful of the iron bars, he rapped once on the thick glass and lifted his voice just enough to call out a name.

"Gilbert?" He paused, perking his ears to better catch any sound from within the house. "Dove, have you finally given in?"

A weak cough answered him, breath behind it rattling and wet. He wrinkled his nose at the sound instinctively.

"G.. Gabriel..?" A shaky inhale that sounded like it may well be the man's last followed the pronunciation of his name, tone trailing off with a pitiable sort of hope attached to it.

"Aye, darling. It's me." He didn't lower his hand just yet, choosing instead to splay his fingers against the glass so that the sickly man within would have some point of reference. "I take it your legs are close to failing you then."

There was a pregnant silence that answered him for a long moment - Gilbert either suppressing his coughing or he'd forced himself to cease breathing altogether.

Then, quietly, "You knew?"

Gabriel allowed himself to smile. It wasn't kind or gentle, as the man he was addressing probably deserved. Even with his enhanced senses it was difficult to guess exactly what Gilbert was able to see of him, given the foggy glass of the window.

"One learns to spot certain things, love." He says instead. His index finger taps once against the glass, the gentlest thing of the whole affair thus far. "I have an offer for you, if you're interested."

A creak and a shuffle tell him that the man is shifting, either in a bed or a chair. He can't quite tell which. He can, however, glimpse the shape of large eyes in the dark, watching him.

"Are you going to kill me?" For a man not known for his constitution, he managed to sound rather calm while asking.

"Either way, yes." He answered. Probably better to be frank about it, he reasoned. "My own brand of mercy, I suppose - but for you my dear I would make it quick. That, and only that, I can promise."

Silence again, broken only by a wheezing breath. Another creak that might be Gilbert shifting in an attempt to relieve the pain he most likely was in. To little effect, he imagined.

"And... and if I say no?" Gilbert's voice gained some strength towards the end, making a valiant attempt at defiance. "What happens then?"

Gabriel smiled again. Softer this time. Nearly fond.

"I leave, dearest. And later I will come back. It may be too late by then however, I think."

It always was. Every time, over and over, the man would change and it would be terrible. He supposed it meant something that he could feel sympathy for the man even after three attempts - that or he'd sunk to some previously unknown low by offering him such a solution this time.

It had to be for the better that no one, Gilbert included, remembered the previous times. He could at least thank Yharnam's twisted gods for that and mean it.

Dropping his eyes to the pavement as he waited, Gabriel counted sixteen of his own slow heartbeats before a weak laugh came from inside Gilbert's little sanctuary. He waited for it, and the subsequent coughing fit, to die before lifting his eyes back to the window.

"I should curse you, Hunter. Probably more, if I had the strength to do so." Gilbert's voice dipped low, tinged with bitterness.

Gabriel waited for it to pass. Sensed the words lurking beyond it, on the cusp of being spoken.

In a soft, frightened voice Gilbert asked, "Will it hurt?"

He did not let his fingers tighten against the glass, no matter how they wanted to. Just as he had not spoken to Gascoigne's little girl - even knowing that without the damned music box fighting the insane man would be a hellish trial indeed.

It had been. Then old Henryk had gone and lost his damned mind, just like before.

"For you, Gilbert, I'll make it quick." Reluctant tenderness eased some of the hardness in his voice. His thumb traced the Evelyn waiting at his hip, wood and metal patiently waiting to be used.

"The night's going to hell anyways my love," he teased as he raised his head, peering into the darkened safe room. Gilbert's eyes stared back and reflected what light there was like an animal's. In a softer tone he added, "I'm just sending you ahead of the rush."

Gilbert chuckles, bless him. And the heave of his lungs for air that comes after.

"What... what do I need to do?" He asks.

Gabriel doesn't smile as he slides the Evelyn from its holster. His hand is steady when he aims, the palm he'd placed against the glass lowering just a bit.

"Sit up for me, dear. Dream sweetly when it's over."

The gun barks thunder and the glass shatters loud enough to echo raucously through the bloodied streets.


	3. Frenzy

Blood spatters the cobbles of the street and she knows she is not alone. She wrenches the cleaver from the body, pleased when it slumps to the ground and finally lifts her eyes from the kill to peer at her visitor. Gore streaks her clothes, mats her hair and turns it a darker shade of red. She grins all the same, eyeing the figure in a crow's mantle with an appraising stare.

"Sorry. Don't believe we've properly been acquainted."

Her voice makes the other figure stiffen. She hasn't talked much since arriving in Yharnam - only enough to exchange rudimentary greetings with the old man and the doll in the dream, so it's gone husky and deep from lack of use.

She can tell her watcher doesn't like it.

Blades glint at the masked figure's sides. They're about as long as her forearm if she had to guess from the brief glance of them she gets, curved oddly in her opinion.

In the light from the incense lantern, the beaked mask gleams eerily white.

"I have the feeling I should keep my eye on you, Hunter." A woman's voice, accented. Perhaps the most so she's heard from anyone just yet.

She shrugs at the suggestion of a threat and snaps her cleaver back into its folded state, dismissing the evidence of violence at her hand all around. "As you will. I'm sure we'll be meeting again."

"Take care if we do, Hunter." The beak lowers as the woman stares her down. Her arms are folded across her chest but that means nothing. The blades are still within easy reach and she has the feeling that this crow woman is faster than she looks. "My trade involves dispatching those who grow too thirsty for blood."

"Excellent." She grins again, wider this time. Experimentally, her fingers tighten on her saw cleaver. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

They stare at one another, unwilling to move for a long, tense moment.

A beast roars from somewhere deeper in the city, splitting the quiet and she goes to follow it at last as though pulled by a magnet.


	4. Nightmare

Simon twitches awake when a hand touches him, startled and gasping as his heart leaps weakly in his chest. He's surprised it can find the strength to pound as hard as it does after the injuries he's suffered. After the third time the Assassin skewered him.

It isn't the Bell Assassin that greets him, spiked stave dripping ichor and ready to cleave his flesh again.

It's the Quiet One. The Hunter that doesn't have a name, or if they do they've never shared it.

Relief is nearly as heady as a blood Ministration to his hyper-aware senses. He sighs, belatedly realizing just how badly he's shaking against the swollen boards of a fishing hut.

The chanting continues outside - never quite fading from existence.

He stopped trying to make sense of it a long time ago, deciding that whatever curses the people of the Fishing Hamlet had left to cast weren't meant to be understood by human ears.

But the weight of it, oh gods...

"You're here." He says instead, pushing the thoughts aside. The Silent Hunter nods, hand still on his shoulder. A blood vial glints in their other hand, liquid inside dark.

He stares at it, tempted and repulsed all at once.

Blood. It had always been the blood, hadn't it? It started the whole mess - the blood and the eyes, and here they all were, destined to be preyed upon by madness and inhuman lusts at the end.

"You should keep that." Nodding to the vial as best he can, Simon tries to arrange his limbs into something less demeaning than a sprawl. Pain surges through his body at the attempt and draws out a groan from within him.

Even if the odd Hunter beside him bathed him in healing blood, he doubted it could undo the damage the Assassin had wrought.

His heart jumped once more, thudding painfully against his ribs at the mere thought of the one pursuing him. Something must have shown in his face because the Quiet One was at his side again, supporting his head as his muscles spasmed in a panic.

"Not.. not again.. I can't.. oh please not again..."

He was babbling, he knew it. It probably didn't make any sense to the smaller figure trying to steady his thrashing - hands in gloves darker than his own settling at last on his upper arms and holding him in place.

They were stronger than they looked. In a brief moment of clarity Simon thought he saw their brow furrow with the strain of keeping him in place - from injuring himself further - but he wasn't in the frame of mind to appreciate it.

He couldn't withstand another assault. Not like this, not in this wretched place.

There is no Dream waiting for him anymore, no respite from the tolling of the bell that would summon the wicked tormentor.

The one above him makes a sound when he grabbed at their arms, hard enough to bruise to the bone for a regular citizen of Yharnam.

Abruptly he let go - nausea and shame building up in the back of his throat.

Attempting to collect himself Simon forces words past the knots in his throat. "You must continue on. Deeper into the nightmare. Find the true secret. The proof of our fore-bearer's sin."

Green eyes - dark like glass bottles - stared down at him, exposed skin around them drawn tight with confusion and concern. They didn't fight when he clumsily took their hands, allowing him to pull them close enough that he might whisper into the half-hidden shell of one ear.

He couldn't let the Assassin overhear. Not when both of them were so close to an end.

"Find what we left behind, friend. The truth of the Church and the Dream."

Simon felt the last bit of his strength slip away at that, his back making contact with the rough floorboards once more. The one above him continued to hold on to his hands - as though that might anchor some part of his drifting consciousness to the reality of this world.

Perhaps it worked. He couldn't be sure.

He could offer them his bow. What was left of his supplies - now long diminished by his time within the Nightmare. Of course, no Hunter ever offered up their own weapon easily - he could see the realization flicker in the eyes of the Quiet One when he mentioned it.

The grip on his hands tightened.

Oddly, he found a token of comfort in that. How many could say that they would be missed in such a place as this?

He would only close his eyes for a moment, he told himself. Just enough to blink and gather his energy.


	5. Godhood

An old hunter sits. Considers what he sees before he stands and resets the board -

Bandages. A transfusion. A hand-written invitation.

A gleaming silver music box, delicate mechanisms inside free of rust and ready to play. A brooch with a large red jewel - beautiful and cherished enough to draw any eye that chanced upon it.

A mantle of crow feathers. Blades forged from celestial metals.

Runes inscribed with unpronounceable names.

A hair ornament, small enough to be worn unhindered by a bonnet.

Pale, tear-shaped stone shed from an impossible source.

White flowers sweetly offering a beguiling fragrance unheard of anywhere else.

Brine and blood, eyes and insight.

A curse. A Dream.

The old hunter dribbles paleblood past the lips of unconscious Hunters-to-be, ones that made the choice and made a part of him Their Own.


	6. Cycle

A woman named Thalia kneels beneath a heavy, pregnant Moon amidst a throng of flowers and bows her head to the gleam of a scythe.

-

A young man named Gabriel sips blood from the Queen of Cainhurst and feels its corruption spread throughout his body - feels less hollow with the calling of a purpose now in his veins.

-

A red haired Hunter swings a bloodied cleaver through another beast, echoes of voices calling her name drowned out in the thrill of the Hunt.

-

A Hunter with green eyes and the barest sound of a voice curls in on themselves beside the corpse of Kos, weeps into the sand until it sticks to their eyelashes.

-

An old hunter walks the city with no shadow to follow his steps. The Moon hangs overhead.

-

The Hunt continues.


End file.
